


Chains

by chuusei_teki_na_koe



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bottom Vergil (Devil May Cry), Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Constipation, Feels, Gentle Sex, Half Devil Trigger Sex, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Incest, Sin Devil Trigger (Devil May Cry), Sparda family drama, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28546326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuusei_teki_na_koe/pseuds/chuusei_teki_na_koe
Summary: After their return from the demon world, Vergil moves in at Devil May Cry, and Dante is overjoyed. However hard it was before, that doesn't matter, now that he has his brother back. He'll even admit to himself, if not to Vergil, that he's giddy in love like a schoolgirl.When Vergil is around, that is. Whenever he leaves, Dante falls apart.
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 170





	Chains

**Author's Note:**

> I had a long conversation with my roommate about what time period Devil May Cry is set in, and he dated every single one of Lady's guns in DMC3—the newest of which, he said, was first manufactured in 1992. Also, every model of the Kalina Ann are slightly modified mobile suit cannons from Gundam. Someone on the design staff secretly wanted to work for Bandai-Namco instead, clearly.
> 
> Ergo: Vergil went to the demon world shortly before the internet got big, and came back to a world with the internet and cell phones. All those pay phones mean nothing. There should be cell phones!!!
> 
> I mean, the real answer is that the designers clearly don't give a damn about timelines because Lady has looked the exact same for the past 25 years despite theoretically being human, but well, I tried to insert some logic into this story. I tried.

Despite being exhausted and covered head to toe with all sorts of nameless demon muck, the first thing Dante thought when he and Vergil returned to the Devil May Cry after their long stint in the underworld was, _oh thank God someone cleaned up my bottles._

Usually Lady or Trish wouldn't touch his stuff, but it had apparently been long enough that the ladies had done a little tidying in his absence, and there were no stray pizza boxes on the floor or liquor bottles on the desk or sills, and when he flicked the light switch, the power actually turned on.

Dante wasn't normally that secretive about it—he would never fool Lady, Trish, or Morrison. But after one too many pathetic and embarrassing conversations with Patty, during one of her cleaning sprees when she had dangled an empty bottle in his face and asked with her characteristic childlike bluntness, “Why do you drink so much?” Dante had decided it was time to start being a little more discreet.

So he tried to clean himself up a bit around clients, and around Nero. And call it a bit of stupid pride, but he didn't need his brother scoffing at him, too. After all that time together in the underworld, he trusted Vergil to have his back when it counted—Vergil had sworn as much, and Dante took him at his word—but he didn't trust Vergil not to sneer at him over being, well, a general wreck.

“Welcome to Chez Dante,” Dante flung an arm out as Vergil stepped through the door, eyes wandering. “I'd show you around, but I just want a shower.”

Vergil sighed deeply, leaning on Yamato's scabbard like V once had with his cane. Every once in a while, Dante saw some of V's mannerisms in him, and it was kind of eerie. But maybe they'd always been there, and Dante had just never noticed. “Agreed.”

“Last one's a rotten egg, then,” Dante said, dragging himself over to the bathroom, but then after opening the door, he paused and looked back. “Unless you wanna go in together?” he added with a smirk.

“Just turn on the water, already,” Vergil said, exhaustion plain in his voice as he began stripping off his coat. “I feel disgusting.”

x x x

Dante's bathroom was large, in retro style, but ancient and falling apart. The only ventilation was a tiny glazed window that probably had mold on the sill. The big claw-foot bathtub was kinda grimy, and the drain in the tiled floor smelled weird if you got too close to it. Dante avoided thinking about things like that, most of the time.

The two of them stripped in silence. Dante had seen Vergil naked a hundred times before at this point, but it felt different now that they were just in a very mundane bathroom as Dante turned the hot faucet all the way, splitting the flow to fill the tub and use the shower head at the same time. The only exchanges between him and Vergil were the passing of the soap and shower head back and forth as they scrubbed what felt like a year's worth of grime out of themselves—and once the bath was full enough, Dante sloshed on in, leaning back against the sloped side with a groan, one arm hanging over the side. “Aghhh, that's the good stuff.” He could feel every tight knot in his body slowly unwinding. “This is like an orgasm after years of edging.”

Vergil, who'd just finished doing a final rinse of his hair before slicking it back in that way Dante privately thought was _incredibly_ sexy, turned off the shower head and turned to Dante with a dull look.

“What, there's room for you too,” Dante pulled back his knees and waved at his brother. “It's a big tub.”

He kinda thought Vergil wouldn't do it, but Vergil stepped into the opposite end of the tub without a word of complaint, leaning his head back to the left of the faucet, closing his eyes, and letting out a little sigh. “You always did like it scalding hot.”

“It ain't a good bath unless you come out pink.”

Vergil made a _hmph_ sound, eyes still closed, but there was a bit of a smile on his lips. “You never turned on to cold showers, I take it?”

“Hell no. Do I look like a masochist?”

“You ask to get a sword through the gut on a daily basis.”

“You're the one who's always asking for it.”

“If by _asking for it_ you mean causing you to get a temper when I show you your place, then yes.”

Dante shoved his foot in Vergil's face, turning his face to the side and smushing his cheek with a toe, and Vergil immediately retaliated by grabbing him by the ankle and yanking, dragging him under the water and holding him there while Dante flailed, and their scuffle continued a bit longer, but then the bathtub creaked in an ominous way, and head bursting out of the water with a gasp, Dante cried, “Truce, truce! I only have one bathtub.”

Vergil just huffed air out his nose, and opening his eyes, Dante found their positions had shifted. Vergil's face was right over him, one arm braced on the side of the bathtub and the other on Dante's shoulder, his knee between Dante's thighs.

Dante slid up the back of the bathtub again, clawing his hair out of his face with one hand. “Play gentle for once. Can you even do that?”

“Can _you?_ ” Vergil shot back, sullen in this weirdly childish way.

“Maybe. If you do.” Dante brought one hand up to take his brother's chin, thumb sliding over his lower lip. Vergil's eyelids lowered slightly, though he had a stone face as always.

Dante lifted his head as he brought Vergil's chin toward himself, and Vergil let himself be drawn into Dante's lips.

Vergil's mouth moving against his was feather-light as his body slowly settled against Dante's, his arms moving to the rim of the tub over Dante's head, and Dante's arms snaked around his waist, pulling him close. Neither of them said anything, and when Dante opened his eyes to examine Vergil's face, he saw his eyes were closed. Vergil barely even closed his eyes when he was asleep—Dante had definitely seen him sleeping with his eyes open before, like some kind of fish. It was a cool trick, but also creepy as fuck. Seeing him like this was—unlike him. Or maybe Dante was being an idiot, having the idea that Vergil never closed his eyes, not leaving himself vulnerable for even a blink.

Dante kissed the corner of his mouth, the junction between his jaw and ear, a spot halfway down his neck, and Vergil tilted his head to grant Dante access in a gesture that was strangely intimate. Dante was used to having to rip his way to Vergil's throat to bite there, tearing through muscle and tendon to feed like a beast. Seeing this sort of vulnerability from him was a little bit...terrifying.

This felt so fragile, Dante was afraid to say something and ruin it. He pressed his lips to the pulse point in Vergil's neck, then buried his face there, inhaling his smell mingled with soap.

They spent a while longer in the bath, just lying against each other in silence, touching, and kissing. When the water started going cold, Dante got out, and Vergil followed, drying off with the same towel before walking, still naked, up to the bedroom on the second floor.

This was the first time the two of them had ever had sex in a bed. Maybe that was what did it—you had to be gentle on the furniture, after all.

Dante knew he wouldn't be able to cum, and he expected Vergil was the same, too. They both needed something more, physically, in order to get off. But he didn't care about cumming, right then. The both of them stayed in human form, soft skin pressed against soft skin, as Dante gently rocked into Vergil's body. He held Vergil's head in his hands, mouthing at his neck, his jaw. He could barely even stay hard for this—his demon was quiet, half in slumber, nothing to excite it—but he kept going anyway, and Vergil welcomed him, hands rising to Dante's head to curl in his hair, not yanking or clawing, just holding.

The room was so quiet, all Dante could hear was the sounds of the bed creaking, the faint slick where their bodies were connected, and their breathing, practically in unison.

Dante just curled into his brother, anticipating the moment this would break.

x x x

When Dante woke up the next morning in bed alone, his immediate reaction was panic.

Throwing open the bedroom door without even putting clothes on, he thundered down the stairs, eyes sweeping Devil May Cry to find—

Vergil sitting there on the couch against the wall in his vest and pants—that demonic clothing materialization thing he always pulled had magically cleaned them, it seemed—reading a book from Dante's shelf.

Vergil looked up from his book at his brother. “Do you normally strut about the place with the family jewels hanging out?”

The tension dropped from Dante's shoulders, and he pasted on a grin. “Yeah. You like it?”

“Hmph.” Vergil buried his face in the book—and now Dante could see it was a poetry collection that he'd very sentimentally bought some time after Temen-ni-gru. “Crass and shameless.”

Dante turned around and smacked his own ass at Vergil, then walked off to the bathroom to retrieve his disgusting clothes, giving them one whiff before deciding he probably just needed a new jacket. He dumped everything by the washing machine before going back upstairs to hunt for something to wear, coming back down again when he rubbed his face and decided yeah, he really needed a damn shave. He'd gone beyond “aged rocker” into “hobo” over the past few months.

Scrounging up a razor that looked still decent, as Dante shaved in front of the bathroom mirror, as hair fell into the sink, he was shocked to see the face underneath.

He wiped the glass with a cloth, tilted his head, examined himself under the light. He _felt_ like that trek through hell had taken years off his life, so why the hell did he look _younger?_ Was that just the magic of his “homeland”? The lines had faded, and his skin seemed smoother. He scowled. Wrinkles shouldn't go backwards. This was, if anything, a clear demonic marker. He'd thought of himself as middle-aged, but now he didn't look a day over thirty.

Turning his face the other way, running his hand over his chin to check his shave, it struck him that he looked just like his brother again, like back when they were teenagers. He couldn't be unhappy about that.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Vergil looked up from his book again, staring at Dante's face in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. He looked down at his book again. “You really needed that shave.”

Dante scoffed at him. Vergil was weirdly meticulous, that way—even in the bowels of hell, he would shave himself daily with a little energy blade, no mirror necessary. And he never seemed to nick himself, either. Privately, Dante thought that trick was way more impressive than three Judgment Cuts in a row.

Dante went over to the desk, shuffling through the drawers hopefully, and when he found what he'd been looking for—a crumpled twenty-dollar bill smushed at the back of the bottom drawer—he raised it victoriously with an “Aha!” and turned to Vergil to say, “Wanna go out for breakfast?”

x x x

Sitting across from his brother in a greasy spoon of a diner, watching him dig into a plate of eggs and sausages, was a little surreal.

It was even more surreal to realize this was a “morning after” breakfast.

How exactly did one navigate a sexual relationship with their brother?

The fact that Dante was even asking this question of himself in the first place was a giant headache.

But back up. Way up. Twenty-five years up. Or twenty-six. Twenty-eight? Dante wasn't even sure anymore. It wasn't like this was new—fucking, rather. They'd done it a few times, as teenagers. Not like, _deliberately._ They'd probably been about fifteen when they'd first run into each other after the Red Grave incident, and Dante had discovered that Vergil was still alive.

Alive, sure, but not the same. It wasn't like Dante had been expecting a hug and a cry—well, maybe he had been. Seeing Vergil alive sure had shaken _him._ But Vergil had been oddly distant with him, and then when Dante had turned down Vergil's invitation to search for information and relics related to their father, Vergil had been ready to walk out and never see him again.

Dante couldn't remember exactly what he'd said then, but it had probably been something like, _“What the hell? We haven't seen each other since we were kids, and you're gonna bail again, just like that? When did you suddenly become such an asshole?”_

And Vergil had probably snapped back with something like, _“If you're not interested in helping me, then there's no point in our association.”_

Whatever he had said, though, Dante remembered he'd been the first to draw his sword. He'd been just the kind of dumb kid to get into a fight in the middle of the street, back then—Vergil had been the one to cut it short, inviting him for a duel somewhere out of town, somewhere more private.

That duel—the first of many—had ended with Dante on the ground on his back, Yamato through his gut, as Vergil straddled him, grinding against him and snarling until he reached completion before abandoning Dante there to finish himself, curled in a puddle of his own blood with one hand over the blindingly painful hole in his gut and the other in his pants.

He'd never been more turned on in his life.

It had happened a few more times, always as a part of a fight—Vergil had never lifted a finger to pleasure him, merely using Dante's body as a tool to get off and generally causing him more pain than anything else.

Near the end, in Temen-ni-gru, though, it had stopped. Dante remembered that time atop the tower in the rain, when Vergil had driven his sword through Dante's gut yet again, Dante had seen that same look in his eyes, had looked up to see the press of Vergil's erection in his pants—but Vergil had turned away, and Dante had thought then, _oh, it's really over this time, huh?_ No more screwing around. They were playing for keeps, now.

And then Vergil was gone, and what had happened between them had remained Dante's dirty little secret for twenty-five years.

During their time in the underworld together, though, they'd started up with their old games—this time, with a bit less venom, and with both of them in Devil Trigger, more often than not. It was just what happened when they fought, an extension of the same sort of behavior.

Well, that was how Dante rationalized it now, sitting in this diner chair across from his brother in silence as he desperately tried to remember how to function in the human world.

Fucking his brother had seemed acceptable down there, in the world of monsters where nobody cared and they were living on the knife's edge every day, and Dante had felt more demon than human. But here, in this grimy diner, with the eyes of the diner cook, the little old lady at the back eating pie, and the mom with her young daughter eating pancakes all present, the reality of the situation suddenly felt crushing.

And the reality of the situation was that last night, Dante had made love— _yes,_ not something he could ever in a hundred years call fucking, that had most _definitely_ been making love—to his twin brother, and they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms, and now Vergil was sitting across from him in a diner swallowing a sausage, and all Dante was thinking about was the greasy sheen on his lips and how badly he wanted to touch him again.

Instead, Dante looked down at his empty plate. Good God, was he making doe-eyes at Vergil like a teenage girl? He felt like he was. He felt like an absolute tool, like he was fifteen and an idiot and trying to hit on girls by showing off his sword skills (which, spoiler, generally did not work).

Last night had fucked with his head.

“So,” Dante said, clearing his throat. “You can crash at my place for a while.” _Long as you want, actually. Hey, how about forever?_ He looked up at his brother again.

“...What about rent?” Vergil said after a pause.

“Ahh, yeah...” Dante rubbed the back of his head. “I gotta ask Morrison what the situation is there, but...well, you can just join the family business, right?” the words came out of his mouth without thinking.

“Family business,” Vergil replied slowly.

“I mean, there's me and Nero, and with you, right...hunting demons. That makes it a family business.”

Vergil's expression revealed nothing, but he nodded. “Seems fine, for now.”

For now.

x x x

There was a big to-do when everyone found out Dante and Vergil were back—when Dante called Morrison about the building, after saying, “Welcome back, you bastard,” Morrison apparently called Trish, who then called Lady, who then called Nero, who swiftly came over in the van with Nico, banging open the door of Devil May Cry to punch Dante in the face before going to the bathroom to pretend he wasn't crying.

“Lovely welcome-home present,” Dante yelled toward the bathroom as he wrenched his broken nose back into position, wiping the blood off with the back of his hand. “Sorry I didn't get you any souvenirs from our trip in hell!”

“Fuck you!” Nero yelled back through the bathroom door, and Dante had to smile.

This tearful reunion was followed up by the absolute most awkward evening of Dante's life.

Nero basically bodily dragged his father and uncle back to Fortuna to have dinner with him, Kyrie, and the kids at the orphanage, and despite both their valiant attempts to back out, it was quite clear there would be blood on the floor if they didn't go, which was an exciting idea, but Dante also had no money for repairs, so he relented, and forced Vergil to come too, so he didn't have to suffer alone.

Despite having known Nero for years at this point, Dante had actually spent very little time in Kyrie's presence, and seeing her and Nero together was a little weird. Nero's typical belligerence all melted away around his girlfriend—now wife, apparently, which Kyrie announced beamingly as she flashed her ring and grabbed Nero's hand to show off his. It was actually kind of shocking how much he smiled around her.

“And here I thought you were a big bad wolf,” Dante said to the boy sitting opposite him as he bit into a roast chicken leg. Damn, Kyrie could _cook._ “But all along, you were just a little puppy dog.”

“You shut up,” Nero snapped back automatically before his eyes slid to the five pairs of little eyes that were all on him, clearing his throat and falling silent.

“Ah, tender ears, huh?” Dante said mischievously. “Just let me know what words I'm not supposed to say around the kids, or I might slip up.”

“We're not allowed to say fuck,” the boy to Dante's left piped up. He was small—twelve, thirteen, something like that? Dante wasn't good with kids, he had no clue.

“Or shit,” the girl one down added.

“Julio, Mica,” Kyrie gave them a stern look as she set down the last dish on the table before coming over to sit down to Nero's right. Vergil was sitting at the head of the table between Nero and Dante that day, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable about it, but kept himself occupied with eating very slowly, focusing mostly on the chicken.

“Any other words you're not allowed to say?” Dante turned to the kids with a grin, talking with his mouth full of chicken all the while.

“ _Dante,_ ” Nero glared at him.

“Do I have to set an example, here?” Dante said with a shrug, dropping his chicken bone on his plate. “I thought that was his job.” He jabbed his thumb over at Vergil, whose lips twitched slightly in annoyance.

“So is it true you're Nero's dad?” that one kid who'd said _fuck—_ Julio—piped up, looking at Vergil.

“That's right,” Dante answered instead. “Just look at that family resemblance!”

“Who cares?” Julio snapped back with a glare at Dante, then Vergil. “You were never there. You're just a _sperm donor_ and some stranger.”

Everyone shifted uncomfortably. Nero leaned toward the kid with a hard look. “Hey. That _stranger_ over there saved my life, more than once. Show some respect.”

“What about _him_ , though,” Julio pointed down the table at Vergil. “I heard you guys talking about how he—”

“Julio!” Nero snapped at him. “Enough. It's over.”

Now Kyrie was giving the kid a look, albeit a much softer one. “Everyone has their reasons that you can't know.”

“Who cares about his shitty reasons?!” Julio snapped back. “I don't know why he's even here! He doesn't deserve your food!”

“Julio—” Kyrie's voice turned stern, but the kid was already pushing out of his chair and stomping out of the room.

“...Puberty, huh?” Dante commented after an awkward silence, picking up another chicken leg.

x x x

After dinner, Dante was about to slip out to get away from the tension and get some air, but when he went down the stairs to the garage, he heard voices down below and paused. It was Nero, talking with Julio.

“...even if he was in prison,” came Julio's voice, “he still could've _called._ ”

“He didn't even know I existed.”

“Well, maybe he _would've_ if he hadn't fucked off on your mom!”

“Julio.” There was a pause, and a sigh. “Thanks for being angry for me. But it's okay, really. I'm glad to have him here now. Can you just be nice to him, for me?” And then a sniff. It sounded like Julio was crying.

Dante turned away, quietly heading back up the stairs with complicated feelings he really didn't want to bother trying to untangle. It was kind of a gut punch to see this other side of Nero. Here he was, turning his own shitty experiences into empathy to help some kids who needed it. That was way better than anything Dante had ever managed. It wasn't like Dante had ever been a shoulder to cry on for him. Well, he did his part, right? He looked out for the kid. That was enough. It had to be.

...And prison, huh. Was that the story Nero was telling people? Well, it wasn't wrong.

x x x

Dante came back through the living room to the kitchen to find Kyrie there, cleaning up.

“Would you mind stacking those dishes for me?” she said when he came in.

Dante was trying to think of some excuse to bow out, but then Kyrie smiled sweetly at him and added, “Please?” and Dante felt like he'd be a huge dick if he said no. So Dante, who hardly ever cleaned up after himself, never mind anyone else, swiftly found himself being roped into washing dishes while Kyrie bustled around, wiping the table and putting Tupperware in the fridge, occasionally coming over to tell him, “If you could scrub that one a little more,” or “Let that one soak while you wash the cups,” and after about ten minutes of this, Dante felt like he was starting to understand why Nero was clearly so thoroughly whipped.

“Nero talks about you all the time, you know,” she said as she pulled a broom out of the closet to sweep.

“Nahh,” Dante said as he scrubbed a cooking spoon. “You don't have to butter me up, I already like you.”

Kyrie giggled, but continued. “I'm not buttering you up. He really looks up to you. He likes to be a tough guy, but he was really devastated after you two left.”

“Hmm,” Dante grunted at the sink, not really sure how to respond.

“I know you're busy with important work,” she continued along with the _swish swish_ of sweeping, “But it would mean a lot to him if you came to visit sometimes.”

Dante didn't answer immediately. He was just thinking back on how Nero had kept calling him after the events in Fortuna—always with some flimsy-sounding business, like, “Hey I ran into this kind of demon, just wanted to ask if any have turned up there.” And then a few times, with some excuses for why he was town, he'd bust in at Devil May Cry for a few minutes before awkwardly walking out again. Eventually, he'd worked himself up to just straight-up inviting Dante to Fortuna. “Kyrie'll make you dinner,” he'd said the same thing, every time. “She's an amazing cook, you gotta have her roast chicken.”

Dante had said no. Again, and again, and again.

There had been legitimate excuses, some of the times—he didn't have enough money for gas, or he had an important job come up. But if he was being honest, he was just saying no on reflex. He didn't know how to deal with Nero—it was frankly uncomfortable to deal with Nero. Not to say he didn't like the kid. It wasn't even exaggerating to say he'd die for the kid. But have a family dinner with him?

Aha-ha-ha-ha. No.

Noticing Dante's silence, Kyrie pressed, “There's no expectations. And no judgments toward you or Vergil. Just let him drag you here sometimes, and you can put up with an awkward dinner. ...And I'll send you home with a week's worth of leftovers, okay?”

Dante let out a long, slow sigh, then realized his hands had gone still in the sink. “...The food was pretty damn good.”

“Better than pizza?”

“...Better than pizza,” Dante was forced to admit.

It wasn't until the clean-up was done and Dante was alone in the kitchen that he found himself thinking back on the way she had said that one thing. Very gently, with that hint of implication. _No judgments toward you or Vergil._

...Was she picking up on them? Shit. _Shit._ Dante ran a hand over his face and scowled. He really was acting like a teenage girl.

x x x

Kyrie really did send him home with a week's worth of leftovers, which Dante had to grudgingly admit kinda made the whole awkward dinner thing worth it. When was the last time he'd had a home-cooked meal? Probably not since he was a kid. Neither Trish nor Lady could cook worth shit, and even if they had been able to, they certainly wouldn't be cooking for _him._

“Well, glad that's over,” Dante said when he and Vergil were finally back at the Devil May Cry, and Dante was emptying a cardboard box full of Tupperware into the fridge. “On a scale of awkward to awkward, how awkward was that?”

“Awkward,” Vergil replied dryly as he carefully hung up his coat and yanked off his boots. Dante just walked in with his shoes on, but Vergil was a modicum more civilized. “Let's never do it again.”

“Yeah about that,” Dante called back at him from the kitchen. “I kinda promised we'd be back within a month.”

“No.”

“Did you talk with Kyrie? You can't say no to a woman like that. I'd feel like a monster.”

“I never knew you were so spineless, brother.”

“I dare you to call that woman up on the phone and say, _I apologize to inform you we are never attending one of your dinners ever again,”_ Dante said, imitating Vergil's diction as he turned around and shut the fridge behind himself, making a snooty Vergil-style scowl while he was at it. “Go on, I'm waiting.”

“...” Vergil just made an aggrieved noise and turned away, heading off to the spare room that Dante had recently designated as his. It was full of random junk right now, but with a little cleaning, it'd be livable.

Not like Dante ever intended to let him sleep in his own bed, though.

x x x

You really could get used to anything, and with time, they fell into a lifestyle rhythm. Dante spent most of his time lying around, napping, reading, fucking around on his drum kit or playing pool with himself, dragging himself out only when jobs came to him. In the evenings, he would find Vergil in his room or on the couch up front, they'd fuck each other senseless, and Dante would usually go to bed feeling tired and satisfied. The only downside was the dings in the floor and walls they caused when they started getting too rough. And they broke Dante's bed a few times, but a few nails and two-by-fours could fix that, right? It was kinda easier to fuck in Vergil's room, because he was a maniac who could only sleep on a futon on the hard floor, and he rolled it up during the day, so there was no bed to break.

Dante's preferred method of operation was to sit around and let jobs come to him—it seemed that was not so for Vergil, and once he had a chunk of cash from his first job, the first thing he bought was a laptop—he'd always been interested in information, so this was no surprise. He completely refused Dante's help, of course, stubbornly hunt-and-pecking away with his index fingers as he leaned in at the screen and tried to figure out this “internet” thing. It was fucking hilarious, enough joke material to milk for years, and Dante absolutely did so on a daily basis.

“You actually thought some prince from a foreign country was going to wire you money?!” Dante cackled, smacking the back of the couch with his fist as Vergil, sitting at the front desk of Devil May Cry in front of the laptop, glared at him.

“ _No._ I assumed it was fraudulent, I was simply curious as to how he'd gotten my email address, so I replied—”

Dante was crying at this point, flopping over on his side on the couch as he laughed until his stomach hurt, dropping onto the floor to avoid the mirage blade that zoomed toward his head, where he continued to roll around laughing as he said, “Th-the furniture! Stop r..aha-ha-ha! S-stop ruining the furniture!” Eventually, he was rolling along the floor to avoid a quick succession of more blades that followed, and then a heartbeat after that, Vergil was on top of him, grabbing his face in one hand to smush his cheeks.

“Shut. Up.”

Face still smushed, Dante replied, “How about you shut me up.”

Vergil did.

Dante was so happy, he was terrified.

x x x

The first time Dante found Vergil gone when he arrived home, he just about had a heart attack.

He paced around the Devil May Cry, got up and circled the block, as if that would help. Then he came back to sit down at the desk for two minutes, bouncing his leg and looking around, before he migrated to the pool table, then picked up his sword off the wall and put it back, then came back to the desk. He realized all of a sudden that Vergil didn't have a cell phone. Well, neither did Dante. He didn't like the idea of people calling him all the time—he had a landline and an answering machine, that was enough. Until it wasn't enough, apparently. Dante felt like he was going to die.

And then Vergil came back twenty minutes later, apparently having taken the long way back from the goddamn convenience store, and Dante pretended that he hadn't been having a total crisis before breaking his bed again that night and soaking the sheets in Vergil's blood, the warmth and taste of it reassuring him that Vergil was there, that they were _bound_ forever, no matter what.

“You were the one who told me not to get blood on the sheets,” Vergil said dryly as they both lay back in the mess of torn sheets, blood and semen, Dante catching his breath, Vergil groaning a bit and shifting on the bed as his wounds slowly closed up.

“Yeah, well, I was in the mood,” Dante shot back.

“Do you even have spare sheets?”

“...I can sleep on the floor.”

They went back to Vergil's room and slept on his futon. Or well, Dante slept. Vergil usually fell asleep last and woke up first. Sometimes, Dante would wake up for a minute in the middle of the night and see him stirring, leaving the room and coming back, or just sitting there, fiddling with the Yamato.

Dante didn't bother him about it.

x x x

The next time Vergil left without saying anything, it was for three days.

Dante spent one hour telling himself that Vergil was just out to the convenience store again, two hours telling himself it was a long walk, and three hours telling himself it was a last-minute job, but he didn't call Morrison to confirm that. He just decided to go to bed, rolled around sleeplessly for a couple hours, then said “Fuck it,” and headed out to the liquor store down the street, across from the bar, that he knew was open late.

Alcohol wasn't exactly readily available in hell—well, according to Vergil, there were some places in the underworld that were more “civilized,” but he and Dante hadn't gone to those places, so Dante hadn't gotten a single sip for the better part of two years. Yeah, two whole years, he'd discovered when he came back—that was how long it had been.

So he'd kind of thought he was done with drinking, but apparently, old habits died hard, and he _really_ wanted a fucking drink right now.

“Dante! Long time no see,” the guy at the liquor store, an older guy with a scruffy beard, greeted him when he came in. “I heard you were back in town.”

“Yeah,” Dante said, his feet taking him to the familiar shelves with his favorites before coming back to plunk them at the till. That was about all the conversation they ever had. Dante appreciated that this guy was a hardass businessman who never pried. Well, you had to be like that, in this line of work, right?

He didn't get too drunk that night. Just enough to calm his nerves. The night after _that_ he got too drunk, regretted it, and quickly dumped the bottles in the trash bin out back the next morning, just in case Vergil came back, which he did, and Dante was okay again.

It happened again, though. And again.

It wasn't like Dante hadn't expected it. Vergil had mentioned that he'd traveled a lot as a teenager, and he didn't like to stay in one place. He talked more about that time than he did about his time in the underworld—mostly because he didn't talk about _that_ time at all. And Vergil was a very solitary, self-contained person, as well as someone who liked to keep busy. Dante couldn't imagine he'd be able to handle sitting around all day when there weren't jobs. Often Vergil came back from his trips with money, saying that he'd headed out for a job. So it wasn't like Dante could fault him, when he wound up doing a better job paying the bills than Dante did.

Dante suggested he get a phone—just for emergencies. Vergil did, but Dante quickly realized that even if Vergil did have a phone, Dante couldn't bring himself to call, anyway. Call and say what? _“Hey, every time you leave I freak out, so could you please never ever leave the Devil May Cry for any reason whatsoever, in fact I'd like to chain you to the bed and never let you out of my sight because I'm fucking insane?”_

This was Dante's problem. Entirely Dante's problem.

Lying in bed one night during one of Vergil's longer absences after downing a couple bottles of cheap wine, staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling, he found himself dragging along the same old memory lanes he'd traveled a million times. He remembered what his mother had told him on more than one occasion—he hadn't really gotten it as a kid, but now he wondered if she'd meant something else by it. It had been something like, _“You and Vergil are always going to be together. You have to remember that, even times when you don't get along.”_ And then Dante had said some dumb shit like, _“Always?! Who wants to be with that idiot forever,”_ and she'd replied, _“You'll understand when you're older. You two need each other.”_

He'd definitely written it off then. After the Red Grave incident, he'd remembered, ached, and wondered—but back then, he'd honestly believed Vergil was alive, somewhere, since no body had never been found, and the Yamato was gone, too. He'd encouraged himself regularly, telling himself they were bound to meet again eventually. How many white-haired kids were there out there? They'd find each other, for sure.

But then after Vergil's fall to the underworld, his mother's words had risen in his mind once more.

Dante had spent that time in a particularly miserable alcoholic stupor, made even more miserable by the presence of two fucking loudmouths who would never shut up.

No, not Lady and Trish. Agni and Rudra. Fuckers.

x x x

He'd been sitting on the desk at the Devil Mary Cry, trying very determinedly to pickle all his stupid, alcohol-resistant demonic insides with some frankly disgusting gin, when the swords he'd carelessly left lying against the wall after the last job had started jabbering.

“Oh, there he goes again,” groaned Agni.

“Yet again,” Rudra agreed.

“C'mon, take us out for a battle instead.”

“Yeah, we're thirsty.”

“Shut up, or I'll toss you out on the street and let trucks run over you,” Dante shot back at them, taking a swig straight from the bottle.

“Psh, big deal.”

“We can take that.”

“I'd take a truck over watching this every day.”

“Pathetic.”

“Why not just kill yourself already?”

“Yeah, you're a disgrace, kill yourself.”

It was a testament to Dante's state of mind at the time that he wasn't even shocked by this suggestion. Besides, they were demons. He wasn't expecting sympathy from them. “Fuck off.”

“Vergil hasn't come back,” said Agni.

“He was such a great fight,” Rudra said wistfully.

“Greatest fight! But he's dead for sure.”

“Or gone forever.”

“So kill yourself already.”

“Save your honor, at least.”

“What the fuck do you care?!” Dante flung an empty bottle at the two swords without looking at them, and it smashed pointlessly on the floor.

“It's a disgrace to serve a master like you.”

“Absolute humiliation. Surviving your other half? You're dead already.”

“Walking dead.”

“Empty shell.”

Finally, Dante turned toward the blades. Something about the way they said it sounded meaningful. “What're you talking about?”

“You don't know?”

“He doesn't know!”

“He was raised by humans. He wasn't educated.”

“Pitiable.”

“Just tell me what the hell you mean by _other half,_ ” Dante snapped at the swords.

“When one demon is born as two, its soul is split,” said Rudra.

“One soul, two bodies,” Agni echoed.

“Always together.”

“Bound in flesh and spirit.”

“If one of us were to die,”

“the other would follow.”

“It's the natural law.”

“The law of nature.”

“If your other half has been killed,”

“then you avenge him, and die.”

“But you do neither!”

“Pathetic.”

“Pathetic!”

Dante stuffed them in the closet. Then promptly sold them off.

Ironically, having a couple of demon swords tell him to go kill himself was probably what made him dig in and _not_ do it. Or maybe it was the bare hope that maybe, somehow, Vergil was still alive. Still fighting.

The hope was the worst. He hoped and hoped, year after year, and that was what dragged it out, made it never end. If he gave up hope, that was the same as killing Vergil all over again.

And then he really had killed Vergil all over again.

x x x

Dante didn't really like to ponder if Agni and Rudra had had a sex life before he'd beaten them into being swords, but from the way they had talked sometimes, he kinda got the feeling that they had. When Dante had been pissed one time and tossed one out in the street and the other on the bathroom floor, they'd both just kept screaming until he reunited them out of sheer irritation. Those two blades had been annoying in more ways than one. It was hard to call the bond they'd shared _love—_ it was arguable if demons were capable of that, but sometimes, thinking about his father, Dante wondered—but there had been a bond, all right.

_Bound in flesh and spirit._

And his mother—had she known what would become of them? He didn't think she'd been ignorant about demons. She'd married one, after all. She'd had her own set of secrets—a locked cabinet in the library she'd never let them touch, a private study she never let them into, nights when she conducted weird ceremonies outside under the moonlight.

Maybe Dante could blame all his insanity on some weird demonic instincts. But it sure didn't feel like Vergil shared those. Strange, for someone who had leaned into his demonic side so deeply. But being half-breeds, who knew how they'd turn out. Maybe this was all just human insecurity, and they weren't like demons, _one soul two bodies._ If that was even a real thing and not just some weird demonic tradition.

But Dante did know one thing for sure.

Over twenty years later, and Dante was _still_ jealous of a couple of swords who would spend the rest of their lives hanging on some collector's wall being annoying to guests.

“I _am_ pathetic,” he muttered to himself, rolling into the pillow.

x x x

It was over a year after their return when a rift to the underworld appeared—not big enough to be apocalyptic, but larger than the usual ones—and Dante wound up fighting a giant serpent demon. It was nice to fight a big one, for once, and upon its defeat, he wound up with a fancy new devil arm—a demonic chain that lengthened and split at will.

“It's been a while since I last had a new toy to play with,” Dante said, spinning the chain overhead like a lasso. “Wait 'til Vergil sees this.”

When he and Vergil wanted to have a decent fight—which was fairly often—they headed out of town to do it, so they didn't have to worry about breaking the furniture. Trish had given Vergil one of her old bikes at a steal of a price—Dante would love to have Vergil ride bitch, but Vergil would probably strangle him on the highway if Dante ever tried to force him to do that—and Vergil had quickly become a competent rider, so when they wanted to go out of town, they'd ride.

The two of them were out in a now well-used forest clearing—they'd razed this place multiple times, it was basically a small crater at this point—for one of their regular bouts when Dante pulled out his new toy.

“It's that snake I told you about,” Dante said as he casually whipped it around, spinning it like nunchucks before trying a few experimental whip snaps.

Vergil didn't respond immediately, and noticing his delayed reaction, Dante looked over at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Vergil responded, eyes shifting downward, which was odd. But Dante wrote it off in favor of flinging the chain at his brother in an opening strike.

Vergil's reaction came slow, drawing his sword a hair later than he normally would have to knock aside the chain. That in itself was no big deal, but he just kept reacting slow, like he was distracted.

“Hey V, you're fighting like you're constipated,” Dante said as he strolled across the dirt of the crater, swinging the chain around him. “If you need to go take a dump, I understand.”

Vergil, quite predictably, reacted to that provocation with an attack—slicing through the air so quickly it was like he was teleporting for an aggressive swing at Dante's throat.

“Yeah, that's more like it,” Dante said, responding with a snap of his wrist, bringing the chain around to whip at Vergil's neck, anticipating Vergil would cut sideways, and ready with the other end of the chain to swipe at where Vergil was headed—you always had to be thinking three moves ahead with—

But Vergil didn't cut sideways. The chain smacked him in the neck and wrapped around it, and Dante immediately took advantage, yanking it back as he braced himself for—

Nothing. Vergil provided no resistance, falling to his knees with his hands at the chain on his neck.

Dante froze, releasing his tug on the chain. Vergil was just kneeling before him, the Yamato fallen from his grasp, both his hands on the chain around his neck as his shoulders heaved like he'd been fighting for hours.

And he was looking up at Dante the way a meek child might look up at an authoritarian father with a belt—or a pious believer might look up at a statue of their god, when praying for forgiveness.

A mixture of fear, anger, love, and absolute reverence.

Vergil's lips formed the syllables _pl—_ but he bit off any possible sound before it came out.

x x x

Dante unwound the chain, and Vergil just got up, walked back to his bike and rode off.

When Dante got back to Devil May Cry, Vergil's coat was on the rack and the door to his room was shut.

Dante spent a long moment standing there, wondering what he should say.

Vergil never talked about his time in the demon world. He'd spoken vaguely about the details of the underworld for the sake of exploration while they had been down there, but he'd never talked about what had happened to him, specifically. Or what Mundus had done to him, specifically. And if Vergil wasn't gonna talk, then Dante wasn't gonna pry. Some sore spots were better left alone. Dante didn't like people trying to get in his business, either.

But somehow, somewhere deep in his heart, Dante had believed that Vergil was okay. He was just that fucking tough. Indomitable. An absolute fortress of a man, the guy who had beat Dante down countless times. Break him apart, and he'd come back together stronger. Even if at one point, he'd been so desperate to rid himself of his nightmares that he'd ripped out his humanity to do it, Dante had killed those nightmares personally. And how much did Vergil even remember, anyway? When they talked about their childhood, Vergil's memory seemed to have gaps. Dante had basically convinced himself that Vergil had cut it all away.

Never _once_ had he seen a look on Vergil's face like that, and he looked at Vergil's face a lot. Sometimes Dante would catch a whiff of something close when the room was dark and they were pressed close enough that Dante could feel his heart, but that was about it.

But in the end, he turned away from Vergil's door. He didn't want to embarrass him any further. There were things Dante didn't like to reveal to his brother, either. He had his pride to maintain, and Vergil had his.

So he went upstairs, and left Vergil alone.

x x x

The next day, Vergil was gone.

Predictably, Dante freaked his shit. He freaked his shit hard enough that he actually picked up the phone and called Vergil.

“What?” Vergil answered after two rings.

Dante let out a shaky sigh into his hand, away from the phone receiver, relaxing somewhat. “...You forgot your gloves,” he said lamely after a moment.

“No I didn't,” Vergil replied, tone flat.

“...I'm pretty sure you did.” Then before Vergil could say anything in reply, Dante hung up the phone and buried his face in his arms over the desk. “...Fuck,” he gasped out after a moment, letting his forehead thud into the wood.

x x x

Over two weeks later, Vergil still hadn't come back, and Dante was absolutely falling apart.

Day-drinking was one thing. It wasn't really a problem—Lady and Trish would make snide remarks about it, but they'd both thrown up their hands at him years ago. Hell, Trish had used to be there drinking with him, but she seemed to have quietly passed that stage at some point. Trish was hard as fucking diamond, Dante couldn't understand her, most of the time. And Lady—well, she was a health nut. As a regular human, she couldn't afford to abuse her body like Dante did his. So she just settled for some snide remarks and left it at that. Neither of the women were the touchy-feely type, and that was part of the reason they all got along. They were on the same page.

The problem was when, after passing out on the couch one afternoon, he was rudely awakened by a kick in the stomach, and rolled over to see the boot toe in his gut belonged to Nero.

“You forget I was coming, again?” Nero said, irritation plain in his voice. “C'mon, get up.” He jabbed Dante with his toe. Less a jab and more a kick, really.

“Chill, chill,” Dante levered himself up, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. He had a headache and he still felt somewhat drunk, but he was quickly sobering up. Alcohol passed through his system annoyingly fast.

“You were supposed to come back with me to Fortuna today. And where's Vergil?”

“...Out.”

“Out where?”

“I dunno, kid.” Dante stood, rolling his shoulders. His back was sore from falling asleep in a weird position on the couch.

“Is that why you just had...” Nero glanced down under the couch... _five_ bottles of Jack?! Fuck!”

“Demonic metabolism never fails me,” Dante muttered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and patting his bedhead into a slightly less ridiculous state as he walked away from Nero, toward the stairs. “Go home. I'm not in the mood to go out right now.”

“ _No._ You've flaked out the last two times for bullshit reasons. Make use of your 'demonic metabolism' and get over your hangover.”

“I'm _really_ not in the mood, Nero,” Dante said, a note of warning in his voice.

“I don't give a fuck,” Nero snapped back at him. “Kyrie starts the night before to prepare everything, you know that? She puts in _so_ much work every time for you guys, and then she puts it all away at the end without a single complaint. And then she says, “I'm sure they were just busy. They'll come next time.”

Dante turned back to Nero. “Look, I'm sorry, but I didn't ask for any of that.”

“ _I'm_ asking!” Nero took a step toward Dante, anger clear in every part of his body. He gripped at the chest of his jacket, knuckles white. “'Cause I wanna have a relationship with my only family! Not just a fucking neon sign!” His voice broke at the end, and his eyes were full of such furious sincerity, Dante was forced to look away. “So come to fucking dinner for once! Or I'll kick your ass and drag you over! And him, too!”

Nero's words hit him like a ton of bricks, and Dante sagged against the stair railing. “I'm sorry.” He didn't know what else _to_ say. He had no excuses. He had no reasons. At this point, it was just pure force of habit. He'd spent most of his life like this, and this was who he was, now. He'd had a whole library of excuses, when he was younger—he wanted to focus on hunting demons, he couldn't let people get too close because who knew what he might do, being half-demon himself—people around him tended to get exposed to danger, he felt more comfortable when it was people like Trish and Lady who he didn't have to worry about and who also kept things fairly professional—but these days, all those excuses were starting to run dry, and all he was left with was this burning sense of dread about trying to play a family with Nero. Or with Vergil. Just thinking about the ride to Fortuna made Dante want to get drunk, pass out, and forget about it. Which he just had.

Nero just kept standing there, expecting an answer. Dante let out a long sigh, lifted his head, and reached out to give him a light clap on his upper arm. “I care about you a lot, okay? I'm just not—”

With Nero's eyes on him, Dante found that he couldn't lie or bullshit an answer. “I just can't.” He turned around.

But Nero grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back. “You can—you can talk to me, you know? If there's stuff,” he said, looking down and rubbing his cheek with one hand.

“Stuff?”

“Stuff,” Nero repeated, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean like—” He folded his arms, eyes closing as he screwed up his face, making a rather silly-looking expression. “Kyrie and me take care of a bunch a bunch of orphans, right? ...Well, we've basically adopted as many as we can take, but there's always more... And you know, it's always hard. Even once you grow up. I get that. You get that too, right?” He spoke slowly, awkwardly, and not in the most eloquent way, but he was getting his point across in the most honest way Dante had ever seen.

Dante just looked at him rather dumbly. When they'd first met—or heck, when Dante and Vergil had left for the underworld, Nero hadn't been like this. He'd been the most angry, resentful, can't-play-with-others bastard Dante had ever seen. Besides Nero's own father. And now he was suddenly acting all...nice. Well, still angry, but nice at the same time.

“Marrying that girl sure has changed you,” Dante muttered, folding his arms as well.

“Shut up, so what?” Nero snapped back, his cheeks coloring slightly. He cleared his throat. “I'm saying...you're not alone. No matter what. I'll never leave your stupid ass alone. 'Cause we're family.”

Dante just stared at him a minute, then chuckled to himself. He just kept chuckling as he slowly sank down to sit on the stairs, running his hand through his hair a couple times. His throat felt tight, but he knew he wasn't going to cry. It would just hang there like a nasal blockage, making him feel sick and choked up. Was this just a demon thing? He had no fucking clue.

“You're an idiot, kid,” Dante told him, voice at a hoarse whisper. “A real idiot.” He combed his hair back again before realizing he was doing the thing Vergil did, he'd just absorbed that habit of Vergil's and kept repeating it to comfort himself, even when Vergil wasn't around, and it made him feel even more like shit.

“Takes one to know one,” Nero muttered back at him, eyes pointed off at the window.

Dante laughed weakly, leaning his face on his hand, over his knee. “Look, it's—nothing you can help me with. I'm not sure anyone can. Demon stuff.”

“I know demon stuff.”

“This is different.”

“Is it about...you and Vergil?”

The way Nero said it, that awkward hesitation, made Dante look up at him through the hand over his face. He narrowed his eyes at Nero, which Nero caught with a flick of a glance, looking away again.

“Look, I know it can be weird, okay? I've always,” Nero paused, licked his lips. “Had some pretty fucked-up desires. ...I know praying it away doesn't work.”

“Never took you for a church boy.”

“I'm not. ...Sometimes you just get desperate,” Nero huffed.

“Desperate, yeah, that's one word for it,” Dante muttered.

Nero shifted in place, unfolding his arms. “Look, I'm not blind, okay? You were drinking way more before—before he came back, I mean, and you only ever seemed happy when you were fighting. Then when you guys came back from the underworld, it was like—you were a whole new person. You smile _all the time_ when you guys are together, you actually _laugh_ for real, but then when he's gone, suddenly all these bottles pop up.” Nero flings a hand at the collection by the couch.

Dante winced. Was he that damn obvious? He'd thought he was better at keeping things under wraps. Damn, he _was_ pathetic.

“...Also,” Nero added after a moment of hesitation, “I saw you guys kissing once.”

Dante's hand dropped from his face, and he looked away, embarrassed. “...Ah.”

“I mean yeah, I think it's fuckin' weird!” Nero shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “But I kinda married my stepsister, and I get kinda get off on killing demons! So I'm not really in a place to judge your kinks!”

Dante huffed a weak chuckle. “It's kind of more than a kink,” he said dryly, then regretted it when Nero gave him a questioning look. He let out a groan of a sigh and rubbed his face again. All drunkenness had now receded from his body, irritatingly enough. He could really use some booze-fuelled numbness right now. “I'm not even sure about this myself. I just heard my mom talk vaguely about it when we were kids, and some demons who told me about it. ...That twins are one soul in two bodies, I mean.” He leaned on his knees, looking at the floor, as his mouth moved without his brain really even following. “I used to have these fucking annoying swords, two brothers, and they were like that. Literally like that. Practically one mind in two weapons, screamed when they were apart. They told me 'cause Vergil was obviously dead, I should avenge him and then kill myself, to maintain my honor. Because I was already dead.”

Dante stopped, already feeling like he'd talked way too much. “...Never mind. They were probably bullshitting to get under my skin, who believes a demon, anyway? I'm probably just fucking crazy.”

Nero didn't blow off what he'd said, though. He was silent for a moment before saying, “...Did you want to?”

Dante really didn't want to answer that question. He just let out a sigh. “...It was a long time ago.”

“What about right now?”

Agh. Damn kid just had to stab him where it hurt.

“...I'll be fine.”

“Once he's back?”

Dante just answered with another sigh, looking away.

“Have you considered just _telling_ him this? Or giving him a phone call?”

“It's not that simple—”

“Yeah it is,” Nero cut him off. “Call him and tell him you want him to come home. Just fucking say it.”

Home. _Home._ Did Vergil even consider this place home?

“Look kid, there's a lot going on you don't understand—”

“Like what? What don't I understand?” The aggression in Nero's tone pinned Dante down.

Dante was really feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass, and it was intensely uncomfortable. But Nero was the one person he really couldn't deny. “Vergil is—” he scowled, unable to quite find the words. “He's lived in the underworld for a really long time,” Dante said slowly, choosing his words carefully. He never had told Nero the full story of where Vergil had been, and he was sure Vergil hadn't said, either. “Trapped in the underworld” had been a good enough excuse. “And it's made him...” He trailed off, before correcting himself, “I mean, since the Red Grave incident, he's always been...”

“Super fucked up?” Nero finished for him.

“...I think he would describe himself as _hard_ and _focused._ ”

“The last time you guys came over, he spent a full hour slowly eating a slice of tiramisu. Kyrie asked if he didn't want it, he said that he did, it was just hard for him to eat human food, and he wanted to finish it. And then he spent another hour holding onto the plate and staring at it, and Kyrie had to wait until he was done to clear the table. She asked if he was okay like six times, and he just kept nodding and staring at the plate.”

“...Oh yeah, I guess that did happen,” Dante muttered. “He gets weird about food. It's funny, he always told me he hates sweets.”

“Yeah, I don't think he hates sweets.”

Dante leaned his elbow on his knee, chin on his palm. “Okay, yeah, he's not used to living among humans. But he'll figure it out, he's good at taking care of himself.”

“You could help him.”

Dante barked a laugh. “Have you _met_ my brother? He would literally rather die than ask for help with anything.”

“Then give it to him without asking. Call him up, ask him where he is and what he's doing, and say, I'm coming right now to give you a hand. That's what it means to be partners with someone.”

“...When the hell did you get old enough to start talking down to me, kid?”

“I've been married for three years! In a relationship for nine!” Nero snapped back at him. “How long have you been in _any_ relationship, in your life?”

Dante groaned and dropped his head to his lap. “Zero years.”

There was a little shocked silence. “...Seriously? How old are you? ...What? And wait, aren't you in a relationship now?”

“Our relationship is brothers!” Dante snapped back at him, then seeing Nero's look, added sheepishly, “...with benefits?” Nero just gave him a harder _look._

Dante heaved himself off the stairs with a scowl, striding a few restless steps forward in no particular direction. “That's just not my life, okay? I've never wanted or needed any of that—”

“Because you only wanted your 'other half'?”

“—...” Dante made a choked noise, still facing away from Nero.

“That's actually kinda cute. I never took you for such a romantic,” Nero teased.

“Yeah, nothing like years of getting stabbed to make the heart go pitter-patter. And then we had a date atop a demon tower where he stabbed me in the gut, then stabbed me again...” Dante counted off on his fingers, “And there were probably a bunch more stabbings, until I finally got sick of getting beat up and kicked the shit of him for being a little too overcome with demon daddy issues, and he jumped off into hell rather than stay with me a second longer.” That last bit turned way more bitter than Dante had intended, but now that he was talking, he found he didn't want to stop. He'd never talked about this with anyone, but it was like Nero had just lanced a wound, and the pus kept coming. “And the next time I saw him, he'd been enslaved to the lord of the underworld. ...I didn't even recognize him. And I killed him again.” His words choked at the end.

Dante brought a hand to his face. This was all over. He knew it was all over, but it sure as fuck didn't feel that way. “I didn't recognize him at all. My own...” He tilted his head up to the ceiling fan as he forced the next words out, raw. “No, my soul probably did recognize him. That's why I did it. That's always been in us—some fucked-up demonic shit pushing us to kill each other, that's why we keep fighting, that's why I love the taste of his blood, one day I'll have my sword in his heart and then hopefully he'll kill me too—”

Dante's words finally stumbled into a wall, and he realized there were tears on his cheeks. “...Fuck.” He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, but it didn't help. “You should've let us kill each other,” he rasped. “I'm a—”

He didn't even hear Nero come up behind him. There was just a tight grasp on his left arm, and it didn't feel like human skin. Nero shifted it back to pink most of the time now, so it was startling to see the shifting, reptilian arm again. But that reptilian arm grabbed Dante's hand tight around the wrist, squeezing painfully hard, as Nero turned to him. “You're not a monster,” he said, filling in the word Dante couldn't say with such shocking ease, it could only have been something that lingered a long, long time in his own heart, too. “You're my family.”

Dante gritted his teeth and didn't make a sound, but he couldn't stop from trembling, and he couldn't bring himself to shake off Nero's hand, either. He just waited until Dante was done, his grip firm and reliable.

“Agh, I'm supposed to be the adult here,” Dante wiped his face with one hand and turned away, pulling out of Nero's grasp. “I can't believe I'm crying in front of a kid,” he said with a chuckle that came out half a sob.

“I'm an adult! I'm married! I'm raising five kids! And you—” Nero leveled a finger at him, “Are a takeout-eating, dirty-bathroom-having alcoholic manchild who still listens to Metallica long after their peak!”

Dante laughed out loud. “Ouch, Nero, going for the low blows!”

“The next time you stick your shitty mixtapes in my van deck, I'm tossing them out the window and running over them.”

“All right all right, I'll listen to your weird prog.”

“Damn straight you will. All the way to Fortuna.”

Somehow, Dante had forgotten that was the reason Nero was here in the first place. “...All right, all right. Just let me have a shower.”

x x x

The ride there was kind of awkward, and the dinner there was kind of awkward, as were the excuses for Vergil's absence, but Dante fell asleep on their couch that night without any alcohol required, which was a bonus. And they sent him back with food.

Dante did not call Vergil right away. He kind of just hoped Vergil would be back soon, but after another week of silence, he cracked, sat down at the desk at Devil May Cry, and picked up the phone.

“What?” Vergil answered after two rings. Now that Dante thought about it, on the rare occasions when Dante did call, Vergil always answered immediately. Like he was ready, with his phone right there. Vergil, who never used his phone and barely understood how to approach technology in general.

“...” Suddenly on the phone again, Dante found himself spouting the same stupid line. “...You forgot your gloves.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yeah, you did. Are you getting senile or something? You forgot all sorts of stuff here.”

“...Like what?”

“...Like your gloves,” Dante repeated himself, leaning forward over the desk to lean his head against his palm. “If you don't come back and get them, I'm tossing them in the trash.”

“There are no gloves to throw out, br—”

“And your books. What was that one you just bought? Yeah, I'm almost out of toilet paper, so I figured I'll just use the pages to wipe my ass. So you better come back soon, or it's bye-bye to Mr. Blake.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Come stop me, you asshole,” Dante said, then slammed the phone down smugly.

“...Well, that conversation went well,” he said to no one.

x x x

When Vergil turned up four days later, Dante grabbed him by the collar, slammed him against the wall, kissed him against the wall, then quite literally tore his pants off to lift him up by the thighs and fuck him against said wall, half-triggering as he did to gouge into Vergil's sides with his claws and bite his chest and neck bloody. And then Vergil's _tail_ came out, and the fucker had to be doing that deliberately and not just 'cause he was getting fucked good, he knew that always drove Dante crazy, doing that thing where he wrapped it around Dante's neck and strangled him until he saw stars, releasing right at the instant orgasm hit and Dante came like a freight train, smacking the wall with his hand as he spasmed deep inside his brother.

Vergil kept rocking against him through it, digging claws into Dante's shoulders as he made that low growl deep in his throat that Dante was sure no one had ever heard except him, he _owned_ that sound Vergil made when he was fucking while half-triggered, with a human face full of sharp teeth, hard plates rippling down his thighs, and that _tail_ whipping back and forth underneath him, slamming into the wall when he came, over and over with each shudder of his body.

“Dante,” Vergil said when they were both done, and Dante was leaning against his shoulder, panting, as he kept him held up against the wall. In a tone that told Dante that though he may have cum, he wasn't at all satisfied, he said, “I want to fight.”

“Took the words out of my mouth,” Dante said, lifting his head with a grin as he lowered Vergil to the floor.

x x x

They flew their way out of town. Normally, Dante wouldn't have turned in the open like this, but it was dark out by now and he didn't have the patience, and clearly, neither did Vergil. The moment the two of them landed, Vergil struck, still in Devil Trigger, and immediately, Dante's blood was up, responding in kind.

In some ways, fighting was better than sex. It was a primal release that Dante needed as badly as eating and sleeping, and Vergil gave it to him like nothing else. He wasn't sure how long they fought—he didn't really care, he wanted it to go on forever. When they were tired, they'd both pause for a minute to catch their breath, then start up again once they could go some more.

Eventually, the clearing was splattered with both their blood and the pre-dawn light was shining in the sky, and when Vergil stood after their break then, he said, “Use this.” And then he summoned a devil arm, tossing it at Dante's feet with a clink of metal.

It was that chain. The one Dante had shoved at the back of the closet and sworn he would never use again. Vergil knew all his hiding spots, apparently. Fuck.

“Come on.” Vergil summoned Beowulf next, raising his fists and bouncing in place a little.

“...If you say so,” Dante said cautiously, picking up the chain at his feet. He didn't really want to do it, but he got it. Vergil wanted to beat this, so Dante would do it for him. He began swinging one end in a slow loop in the air.

Dante started off kinda going easy on him, but that was a mistake. Vergil noticed it, and in the split second when he approached before a vertical slice up with Yamato, Dante could see on his face that he was pissed. It was strange—all this time, he'd thought of Vergil as stone-faced, but over the course of the past three years, Dante had learned to read him. Dante knew when he thought something was funny, he wouldn't laugh, but his eyes would crinkle a bit, and when his mind was elsewhere, his eyes would slide sideways, and when he was pissed, that crease in his brow would turn into a hard line, and you'd see the tension in his neck where he was clenching his jaw.

Vergil forced him back, Yamato in one hand and the Mirage Edge in the other, every strike aiming straight for vital points as if he seriously wanted to kill Dante—well, he always fought like that, they always fought like that with each other, that was just how it went, and it forced Dante to respond in kind, dodging, parrying, taking a few glancing blows, but Vergil was going too hard, and _oh fuck—_

Dante didn't think, no planning or strategizing—he just reacted in the heat of the moment, like he always did, leaping back as he grabbed the chain in the middle with his right hand and whipped it, blasting demonic energy into the metal until it sang. Two ends became four became eight, all points shooting out toward Vergil.

In that heartbeat, Dante saw hesitation on Vergil's face. The Yamato struck aside one, two, three, four, five chains in succession—but he missed the sixth as it took his left wrist and the seventh his right, and then the eighth as it wrapped around his neck.

Dante yanked automatically—no, he couldn't hold back. He knew Vergil didn't want that.

This time, when Vergil fell to his knees, he kept the Yamato in his grasp.

But he still fell to his knees, gasping.

“We can stop,” Dante said, grip on the chains slackening.

“No!” Vergil snapped, teeth gritted. “I can still fight.”

“No, you—”

“I can still fight!” Vergil grabbed the chain at his neck with his left hand, using it to lever himself to his feet. “I can still fight.” It sounded like was just saying that to himself, at this point.

“Look, I'll just—” Dante began commanding the chains to retreat, but Vergil dropped the Yamato to grab the ends of the chains on his wrists, preventing Dante from drawing them back.

“No,” he said, voice low. “You won't. I'll fight.” Vergil's eyes were on him, but he kind of seemed as if his was looking somewhere else. Vergil pulled against the chains, forcing Dante to keep up the tension in return to stay standing.

“Don't be stupid, there's no point in keeping these chains on you—” Dante yanked again, withdrawing his demonic energy from the weapon, and the chains slithered off Vergil's wrists and neck.

And Vergil _screamed._ “Don't, please!” He flung himself at Dante's chest, clinging to him. “I won't fail again!”

Dante just stood there, wide-eyed, and watched as Vergil slowly caught his breath and seemed to realize what he'd just said, his face freezing up in horror.

Then he shoved Dante away, staggering back.

“Vergil—”

Vergil turned away, but Dante grabbed him, yanking him around, and forcing him into a hug.

Vergil didn't even try to push him away again.

Why did that fact just make it seem worse?

Dante buried his face in his brother's neck and squeezed him tight, and he felt Vergil's hands around his back even tighter. Vergil didn't move or make a sound, but he didn't let go, either.

Iron, unconquerable Vergil. Vergil, built on determination and blood. Vergil, who could face any battle with absolutely infuriating, cocky arrogance, and who would fight to the absolute bitter end and go down choking on his own tongue before he admitted defeat, had fought to the bitter end, and had lost. And he had been broken. And he had come to Dante dying and broken.

And he was _still broken._

Just like Dante still was.

When Dante released him, Vergil immediately shifted into demon form and flew back home. Dante followed him without a word.

When they walked in through the front door of Devil May Cry again, Dante saw Vergil was fully ready to just go straight to his room and close the door, and Dante didn't stop him.

He just followed him in, this time.

“What are you doing?” Vergil said when Dante he saw Dante's hand had been slammed in the door.

“Sleeping in your room,” Dante replied.

“You have your own bed,” Vergil shot back. His expression was hostile, but his eyes were red.

“Well, I want yours, too,” Dante shot back with a smirk, and Vergil scowled at him, opening up the door slightly to slam Dante's hand again.

But Dante took the opportunity to wrench his shoulder into the door frame, then shoved the rest of his body into the room, where he immediately kicked off his boots, tossed his jacket on the floor, then pulled his shirt over his head to let it follow, stepping out of his pants before he grabbed Vergil's futon from the corner and tossed it out. Then he plopped down on it to give him a _so what're you waiting for?_ look.

Vergil sighed, undoing his vest—even now, he'd still removed his jackets and boots at the door, how the hell was this guy so civilized when he'd spent most of his life away from civilization? Shucking off his pants and flipping off the light, he slid into the futon beside Dante—it was a small futon, so they had to squish, but Dante was all for that, anyway—Vergil rolled away to face the wall, but Dante just wrapped his arms around his middle, pulling him back into his grasp as he nuzzled the back of his neck, nipping gently.

“I guess this means fuzzy handcuffs are out, huh?” Dante said, teasing.

“Dante.”

“Too bad, the idea of tying you up kinda turns me on.”

“ _Dante._ ”

“I just always kinda wondered how that'd work, since your average bondage rope is like tissue paper, but maybe if we got bridge cables, and you tied _me_ up instead—”

“Dante!” Vergil rolled over, grabbing him by the chin and smushing his cheeks again as his knee dug into Dante's gut. “Be quiet.”

“Why bro, you embarrassed?” Dante said through Vergil's hand. “I was thinking maybe I shouldn't tease you about this, but you seemed to get pissed whenever I go easy on you, so I guess I gotta give you a hard time.”

Vergil made a little frustrated noise, smushing Dante's face harder as he wrenched his face up and down and kneed him in the gut a few more times. “I'll rip out your tongue.”

“Sounds hot.”

And Vergil, that absolute crazy bastard, actually pried Dante's jaw open and reached in like he was gonna do it until Dante grabbed his arms and babbled “Gahh gahhh! Uncuwww!” and he relented.

“Ow,” Dante rubbed his jaw after Vergil let go and lay back down with a thump. “Okay, no teasing. Then how about we cuddle and talk about our feelings?”

“Go to bed, Dante.”

“I _am_ in bed.”

“Go to _sleep._ ”

“I'll go to sleep when you go to sleep, but that might be all night, huh?”

“...”

“Wanna talk about feelings yet?”

Dante immediately wound up on his stomach with Vergil sitting on his back, wrenching back his arm like he meant to break it off. Maybe he actually would, that wouldn't be a first. “You have three options,” Vergil hissed in his ear. “You can go to sleep. You can leave the room in one piece. Or you can be tossed out the window in six pieces.”

“Fuck, I'm hard,” Dante groaned, and it wasn't even a lie.

Vergil broke his arm. Then lay down in bed again and rolled over.

Dante lay there a moment, pushing his arm over, snapping the bones back into place with his other hand, and waiting for them to heal. Then he rolled over onto his back. He'd been half pushed out of the bed, but he also knew touching Vergil right now would result in more arm-breaking.

“...It's fine if you can't do this one thing,” Dante said to the ceiling. Vergil didn't respond, but Dante wasn't expecting anything, anyway. “You don't have to be stronger. You're scary strong enough already. My bed can't handle you being any stronger.” More silence, so Dante went on. “I mean, I'm pretty damn embarrassing, too. ...I drink a lot, when you're not around.”

“...I know.”

“I mean, a _lot._ ”

“Everyone knows you're an alcoholic, Dante.”

“...What?” Dante pushed himself into a sitting position, looking down at his brother's face.

“Did you think you were being discreet?” Vergil snorted. “You hide whisky at the back of the bathroom cabinet, behind the books in the bookshelf, and in the bottom-left drawer of your desk.”

Dante's jaw fell open. “You bastard! You knew!”

“I have eyes. Also, Trish told me.”

 _Bitch._ “How long have you known?”

“About eight months.”

“ _Eight months._ And you still—”

“I still what?”

Dante closed his eyes and dropped back against the futon. _You still keep leaving me, when you know what it does to me._ “Never mind.”

“Mm.”

They both went silent for a while, and now Dante didn't want to talk anymore, but neither could he sleep, now. He just lay there, looking up at the dark ceiling, wondering how many weeks Vergil would be gone for, the next time he went off somewhere to get away from him.

There was a rustling of blankets as Vergil shifted, giving Dante a bit more room on the bed. “Dante.”

“What.”

Vergil let out a long, soft breath. “I thought I made it clear enough when we were in the Underworld,” he said slowly, “but regardless of anything else that happens, I'll always have your back. I've sworn it.”

Now that he mentioned it, Vergil had said that. At the time, Dante had just taken that as a promise to not turn against him—and he knew Vergil's word meant something, so he'd taken that for what it was.

“So,” Vergil continued, “will you always have mine, brother?”

But now, Vergil was saying it different. Or maybe Dante was hearing it different, and he'd just never really listened, before.

Maybe he'd been failing to get it for a long time, since the time Vergil had asked him for help searching for information about their father's legacy, and Dante had turned him down.

Thinking about it now, that was the last time Vergil had ever asked him for help with anything.

But then, what was this? Asking _will you have my back_ implied a weak spot there, a place that needed guarding.

Dante wrapped his arms around Vergil's stomach and hugged him close, burying his face in the rough spikes of Vergil's hair. “Always,” he murmured, voice tight. “I'll always have your back, brother, if you'll have mine.”

“Always, brother,” Vergil repeated softly as he took Dante's hands in his, and those hands kept a firmer hold than any chains until Dante fell asleep.


End file.
